


I'm Not the Man You Think I Am

by facetofcathy



Series: 2008 Kink Bingo Blackout [16]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Community: kink_bingo, Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-13
Updated: 2008-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Warning: This story depicts a sexual assault.  If reading depictions of non-consensual sexual acts is or could be harmful to you - Do Not Read.</strong></p><p>The alternate universe Rodney from Still Going to Hell, But Picking Up Speed makes an appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not the Man You Think I Am

Was it a set-up or happenstance?  John needed to stop thinking about that, needed to start thinking about getting the hell out of the mess he was in.  He needed to stop thinking that this was Rodney holding the 9 mil on him, because it wasn't, not really.  He needed to stop thinking that this guy, this Rodney, was young and inexperienced because he wasn't.  The way he handled the weapon was proof of that.

He looked about eighteen.  He had curly hair going blond at the end, lots of it too.  He was skinny, looked fragile even though he wasn't.  The eyes were the same though, blue and snapping with emotion.  He'd come through the gate, unexpectedly and unexplained two months ago in the company of another kid that turned out to be Ronon, or at least another version of Ronon.  They'd popped them in the isolation room, and Keller'd run her tests.  They weren't naturally younger; they'd been restored to youth by a Wraith.  They'd stayed most of the night amusing themselves with each other's bodies, live for anyone to watch on the security feed, and John had watched - boy had he watched.  They had disappeared as unexpectedly and with the same lack of explanation just before dawn. 

Now the not really young Rodney was here again, stalking back and forth in front of John in an abandoned house on a dead world and waving a Beretta around in time to his unceasing talking.  He had John tied by the hands to a hook in the stone wall, something the previous owners had likely hung meat on and something John was determined to get himself free from.  He hadn't seen the other Ronon yet, but he didn't doubt he was here too.

"That dreadfully slow brain of yours caught up yet, Sheppard?"  Rodney sneered at him, the bitter expression shocking on his young face.

"Just waiting for you to tell me what the hell you want, McKay," John spoke as slowly and easily as possible, looking to provoke a response.

Rodney surged up into John's face, the barrel of the 9 mil knocking into his temple.  He could feel Rodney's hot breath on his neck.  Rodney dragged the barrel down John's face, an obscene parody of a caress and then, the idea's birth plain on his face, slid the cold metal against John's lips.  John tried not to flinch, but he could clearly see the safety was off, and Rodney's finger was caressing the trigger.  John was lost, floundering.  He didn't know if he should play afraid, not much acting required there to be sure, or play it cool.  He didn't know if he should provoke or buy time.  He couldn't stop thinking that this was Rodney doing this to him.

"I hate you, you know.  But you do, don't you - know that," Rodney sounded almost approving.

"The Beretta in my face kinda gives it away.  Didn't you ever learn proper weapon procedure?" Apparently he'd decided on provocation.  Not surprising really.

Rodney's face flushed red and angry, his lips were pursed in a hard line.  "He taught me, of course."

John didn't need to ask who _he_ was. 

"Did you perform that same service for your Rodney?  Did you Sheppard?"  Rodney stood back to eye him up and down with an insolent sneer.  "Did you grab him and take him to the shooting range, press yourself up against his ass and manhandle him into the proper stance?  Did you whisper in his ear, breath tickling his neck, while you imparted all your accumulated wisdom on how to handle a lethal weapon?  Did you walk away whistling the first time leaving him to stand there, feeling stupid and uncomfortable while he waited for the bulge in his pants to disappear.  Did you make him practice over and over again, holding back any praise, leaving him horny and frustrated every time?"

John tried to hold himself motionless.  Rodney had run the barrel of the Beretta down his chest during that diatribe, inching it lower with every rhetorical question.  He didn't know if Rodney really would kill him, but he couldn't take the chance of antagonizing him too much.  He wondered if Rodney had already killed one John Sheppard and cut that thought off before it could carry him away.  Far, far worse than even that horrible thought was just having to listen to Rodney's words.  Everything he was saying was true, for some skewed definition of the word.  He had taught his Rodney to shoot, and in retrospect he could see he'd even gotten a little handsy with him while he did it.  He didn't want to think about it, but he was feeling pretty much as guilty as Rodney was accusing him of being.  His somewhat wilful obliviousness at the time wasn't much of an excuse.  He didn't have much of an excuse for watching this Rodney and his equally young-looking Ronon fucking themselves stupid on the security feed either. 

Rodney was watching him, right in his face again.  Watching, no doubt, for any sign from John that he was scoring hits.  The Beretta was travelling lower, pressing into John's belly now, hard and insistent.  "All that hands on training though, you never restricted that to the range did you Sheppard?  You were always whacking him on the head or flicking his ear weren't you?  Leaning in close, touching - nothing too untoward and always nice and public.  Grabbing his vest, manhandling him.  Right Sheppard?  Just guy stuff.  Nothing weird, right?"  Rodney pressed the barrel into John's gut, and John had to suck in a sharp sound of pain.

John decided he had better answer that one, try to diffuse the tension, something.  "We were friends-" John started.

Rodney barked out a derisive sound and moved back a pace to backhand John hard across the face.  John felt blood well from his lips, but at least the Beretta wasn’t trying to poke a hole in his stomach anymore. 

"Friends! You cockteasing piece of shit.  You were never his friend."  Rodney stepped closer again and pressed the barrel of the Beretta hard against him again.  This time though, he wasn't fucking around; he had the metal pressed right against the head of John's cock. 

John stilled his body, tried to radiate a calm he really didn't feel.  Rodney laughed, bitter and loud in the silent room.  He pulled the Beretta away and fumbled at John's belt with his left hand.  John was screaming no in his own head but kept it there, kept it silent.  He didn't want to give the crazy little shit the satisfaction of a reaction.

Rodney had John's pants open and his cock out and was roughly jerking him, filling the air with curses and imprecations.  The Beretta was waving wildly around again, Rodney's finger way too close to the trigger.  Rodney was pulling at him and John was unsurprised but still horrified to feel himself getting hard.  He wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid that would make it easier for Rodney to shoot him. 

"Yeah, see there," Rodney said, jerking harder as John's cock started to fill.  "You are so full of shit, Sheppard.  When he came to you, your Rodney, all unsure and scared and told you how he felt, told you what he wanted, were you kind to him Sheppard?  Did you explain you're not gay, not at all?  Did you tell him it was all okay, and that you'd just forget the whole thing, like his feelings were nothing and you could just brush them away like some stray lint?  Did you shake your head and laugh after you'd sent him away?  Did you avoid him for days?  Did you, Sheppard?  I'm sure you did, that's just the kind of guy you are." 

Rodney was jerking him harder, speaking in time to his stroking, and the Beretta was back.  Rodney had plunged the barrel inside John's briefs and was caressing his balls with the metal tip.  John was straining against the rope around his hands; he could feel blood flowing down his arms.  He was terrified that he wouldn't be able to come, and that Rodney would shoot his nuts off; he was terrified that he would, and then Rodney would just kill him.  But this was Rodney, no matter how fucked up a version, and the voice was almost the same.  The hand was Rodney's, nearly ambidextrous and so very familiar.  His ears were roaring and all coherent thought was gone.  He pulled harder, more futilely against the ropes.  He bit his bloody lip to keep from crying out as he came. 

He could hear Rodney laughing over the white noise in his head.  Rodney was running the barrel over John's spent cock and palming his own bulging crotch with his come smeared hand.  John couldn't look away from the sight of the barrel against his angry red cock.  He could see come glistening on the metal.  He was absolutely convinced Rodney would shoot him.  He started to shake in something like panic, cursing himself for showing the weakness. 

"Not so straight after all, are you Sheppard?" Rodney was laughing again, a horrible bitter and nasty sound John never wanted to hear again. 

A voice drifted in through the open door, deep and low.  John recognized a Satedan curse just as the voice switched to English.  "Hurry it up, Rodney.  They're coming.  It's Ronon coming.  He'll kill you, so move!"

Rodney tossed his head back and laughed louder.  "Saved by you faithful servant, Sheppard," he said.  He tossed the long and messy curls out of his eyes and finally, finally flicked the safety on. 

Rodney wasn't all the way out the door before John was jumping, trying to free himself from the hook.  The door burst open in mid leap, and John flinched violently thinking Rodney had returned, but it was Ronon.  His Ronon, big and angry, dreads flying as he lifted John bodily free of the hook.  "What the fuck Sheppard?" he said as John tried to run past him and out the door.  "We saw them run by us, you can't catch him now.  Let me."  Ronon pulled him back into the room and, ignoring his bound hands, tucked John back into his pants and quickly got his fly and belt fastened again.  "Rodney's right behind me," he said as he pulled out a knife to cut through the blood soaked rope. 

Rodney burst into the door, gasping, sweat gleaming on his high forehead.  John tried to push past them both to get to the door again, but Rodney had his arms in a crushing grip, and Ronon was behind him, arm around his chest, practically lifting John off the ground again. 

John was shaking again, flushed with rage.  "Are you out there still, you fucking maniac?" John screamed out the open door.  "Are you listening?  Well I'll answer your fucking questions.  I love him, you little freak.  Do you hear that?  I love them both."  John's voice broke on the last word, and he collapsed back against Ronon, gasping.  Trying, Jesus Christ, trying not to cry. 

Rodney's grip tightened on his arm, fingers biting into his flesh.  "He's not me," Rodney said, low and quiet and utterly, utterly certain.  "He's not me, John.  Hear me.  Listen to me.  He's not me, and you're not the guy who made him crazy enough to do whatever the fuck he did to you."

John sucked in a breath and said, "I know, Rodney.  I know."  He tried very hard to believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> Even I think this one needs an explanation. I wrote this story this way because I personally don't find guns sexy. I think proficiency with a weapon, as an aspect of personality, can be sexy. Given the nature of the structure of the stories for the challenge, it's not possible to show the aftermath. Assume a great deal of time passes before the next story.


End file.
